


kiss, consume

by redpaint



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Hate Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, charles is an emotionally disconnected slut and there are some metaphors thrown in, thigh kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25567819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Four ficlets about inner-thigh kisses.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo, Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel, Lewis Hamilton/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 18
Kudos: 132





	kiss, consume

**Author's Note:**

> For four requests I received on tumblr, all having to do with inner-thigh kisses. All fairly unrelated but set in the same universe.

It’s palpable, how much Max thinks he needs to _prove something_ here, as though Charles will somehow respect him more for knowing how hard he can shove his cock down Charles’s throat, as though this isn’t exactly what Charles had expected in coming here. There’s nothing more tedious than being bored and having to pretend like it’s rocking your fucking world.

But Charles pretends, because moaning and whining and leaning into it spurs Max on, draws out the _really_ embarrassing stuff. He likes to think that in another, more normal life he would never fuck a guy who calls himself _daddy_ unprompted but maybe he would, just because it’s so _funny_. He disguises a laugh as a gag and keeps going, goes until Max shudders and shouts and he can pull back and spit the come out onto Max’s stomach. Charles watches as Max slides down, down, down, from satisfaction to repulsion, and he thinks Max has proven something else entirely without even knowing it.

“You’re disgusting,” Max says, but it doesn’t carry any bite. He’s too out of breath, too busy putting himself back together to do any real damage, and besides, it’s not like this is news to either of them.

Charles ducks his head back down and leaves an open, sloppy kiss on the inside of Max’s thigh, adding more spit to the shiny mess. Max shouldn’t mistake it for anything but an act of malice, leaving him wet and cold and stranded on his own in the mattress, a North Sea fish flopping on the dock, too busy devouring the squirming bait to worry about the hook in its mouth. Charles throws him a towel from the bathroom on his way out.

⁂

Daniel keeps whispering sappy shit in his ear, how he wants to _show you my ranch, watch the sunrise, you’d love it._ The ego boost is nice, even though Charles suspects Daniel is ripping lyrics from one of his indie songs, but when Daniel stops talking he looks at Charles like he’s meant to say something back. Charles has to find another use for his mouth, quick before Daniel gets disappointed and mopey and ruins both of their fun.

Charles teases, kissing a line up the inside of Daniel’s thigh, satisfied with how it makes Daniel go silent except for a single long groan. He’s much more comfortable like this— he doesn’t disappoint when he’s on his knees, and with his mouth full he can’t perjure himself.

Daniel pulls at his hair, digs his nails in his shoulders, draws out his name into a string of lazy syllables when he licks from his hole to his balls and back again. That’s better, that’s safer. This way, Daniel can run his mouth and Charles can let the words run through him like a static charge, depositing them safely away from his body when they’re done. Daniel clearly wants something from Charles, but if Charles doesn’t speak then he never has to find out what it is.

⁂

Lewis is just too easy to read, his conflicted, guilty desire spelled out like so many tattoos on his skin. He only needs a little push. He gazes down at Charles with his eyes wide, his lips parted, dancing on the edge of _no_ and _we shouldn’t,_ like the stand-up guy he is, the kiss on the hand on the first date kind of guy, but it’s all a game now, seeing how quickly Charles can get him to abandon that persona for something more _interesting_.

He rests his cheek on Lewis’s thigh, gazes up like some old master’s Eve, too angelic for anyone to really believe he’s doomed them all. “I’m sorry, I’ve never really done this before.”

Lewis’s breath catches a little in his throat. Too easy. Charles could have stood to watch Lewis’s morality twist back on itself a little longer, to see what it’s like when the serpent realizes exactly what kind of garden it’s slithered into. Instead, Lewis runs his fingers through Charles’s hair and whispers _I’ll go slow_ like he really wants to believe this bald-faced lie.

Charles presses a suitably shaky kiss to the inside of Lewis’s thigh, enough so his breath runs over the base of Lewis’s cock. It’s hard not to smile when he sees it jump, hard to keep a straight face and sell the act, but then he looks up and sees that Lewis’s eyes are closed, the cross on his necklace caught between his teeth, and well, Charles lets himself smile then, just before he opens his jaw wide.

⁂

Seb is tougher to crack, so reserved, so private. Charles sees more of him than all the other guys on the grid combined and yet he’s still half a mystery, genial but not quite warm, a professional to the T.

Charles tags along on a hike into the hills on the Thursday before the race, plays oblivious even when it’s clear Seb wanted to go alone. He doesn’t push his luck, though. He lets Seb lead the way and tries not to let it grate on him that all Seb wants to talk about are the local birds and their nesting habits. Nodding along to Seb’s commentary is like listening to the radio, the host totally unbothered by the one-sidedness.

Later, when they’re sitting side-by-side on a rock at the lookout point, Charles slides down and rests his head in Seb’s lap without comment, like this is something teammates do, something _friends_ do. Seb’s thigh tenses under him, but he still turns his head just so and kisses the inside of Seb’s knee. He knows the kind of picture he makes— golden light raking across the landscape of his profile, bringing out his freckles. He’s young enough to earn a scrap of paternal recognition, and on his back, with his belly exposed, he can be docile enough to be non-threatening. It’s still a maddeningly open question, whether Seb wants to claw into the soft meat of his side or protect him from the circling vultures.

Seb is quiet for a long second. He’s too busy gazing out over the sheer mountain faces surrounding them to spare a glance at Charles. It’s almost like being ignored, except Seb’s gripping the boulder white-knuckled, like he’s worried about the both of them falling off the edge. Charles didn’t haul himself up a mountain in skinny jeans to be _ignored_. He slides his fingers under the hem of Seb’s shorts, pushes them up a little to kiss at the skin there, too, but Seb stops him by covering his hand with his own.

“Stand up,” Seb whispers, soft enough not to disturb any of the birds watching them from the trees.

Charles rubs his stomach raw on the boulder when Seb fucks him. It’s evisceration by millimeters, but it’s worth it to know where they stand.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ redpaint
> 
> title from romeo & juliet, because what this fic needed was more clichés lmao
> 
> comments/kudos are, as always, treasured


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